Pressure Point (Point #2)

by Olivia Luck

“Here I am.” Yes, all breathless and panting, here I am. This man’s got me wrapped up in his touch.

  Then our lips touch. A familiar insatiable sensation courses through me, demolishing any resistance to behave myself. Who cares if we’re in the middle of the street? I’m not an exhibitionist, but I don’t care who sees me mauling my boyfriend in the middle of the sidewalk. Both of his hands have traveled to my lower back, fitting me snugly against his hard body. My fingers weave through his perfectly styled hair, pulling him closer. The spearmint flavor is addicting; everytime our lips touch, I’m treated to his signature taste.

  He touches his forehead to mine, eyes shut and breathing heavily.

  “I missed you,” I murmur.

  “No more of these weeks apart.”

  There it is. Reassurance that Blake wants to be around me as much as I want him elevates my mood ten notches and my lips naturally tilt up. “Agreed.”

  “Your place to pick up clothes then my place.” There’s no room for argument and I’m happy to comply. After an unending day at work rife with stress, there’s nothing that I want more than a night with Blake.

  We make quick work of dropping by my condo, and soon after, Blake’s parking in the three-car garage. The moment the garage door touches the concrete floor, Blake’s cell begins buzzing. “Got to get this,” he tells me without as much as a second glance.

  “Hey, Cupcake.” Without looking back, Blake strides into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

  Annoyed, I yank open the trunk of the car and grab my bag. With a tug, I pull it out of the trunk and it clatters to the ground with a thump, landing on my foot. I hiss out in pain at the sharp sensation on my sensitive toes. All of a sudden, I’m pissed off. We were meant to spend time together, reconnect after days apart and what’s Blake doing? Hiding me from Zoe.

  Again.

  I slam the door leading into the house more vigorously than is probably necessary, but I don’t care. Let Blake hear me. Okay, if I took a step back, I might recognize that I’m acting no better than a four-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, but I’m mad! It’s been a tough day; all I want is to be around Blake, and he’s nowhere to be found. Leaving my bags in a heap on the bench in the mudroom, I stalk into the kitchen and rip the refrigerator door open. Even the sight of the white wine I enjoy drinking doesn’t settle the fire building within. I pour myself a generous glass.

  The cool liquid trickles down my throat when I take a very unladylike swig, still not calming me.

  “Thirsty?” Blake sounds amused and sure enough, I find him with one of his smirks plastered on.

  “Not funny, Blake,” I snap.

  His eyebrows rise in confusion. “What’s not funny?”

  “You!”

  “Okay,” he says slowly, dropping onto one of the barstools. “Is there something you want to talk about, Stella?”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “You’re talking in code, Stella. Care to explain to me what’s got you all red in the face?”

  The wine glass hits the marble countertop with a clatter. I can feel my eyes narrowing, and yes, my cheeks are getting hot with anger. “We haven’t seen each other in a week and you’re ignoring me,” I accuse.

  “That was a five minute phone call, Stella. I’m not ignoring you; Zoe wanted to talk to me about the plans for next week.”

  The anger simmering inside of me boils over, and suddenly, I’m left with heartache. When I speak, my voice comes out strangled with emotion, my throat getting thick with emotion. “You’ll never tell her about us, will you? I’ll be your little secret until you decide that you don’t want to be with me anymore and there will be no collateral damage because Zoe won’t know we’re dating.” On some level, I know how dramatic my ramblings sound. Blake’s taken me on plenty of dates in public, and I even appeared on some local blogs photographed with Blake at the Scrapers games. He’s done nothing to indicate that he wants to hide our relationship, but he still hasn’t come out and said that he wants to tell Zoe about us.

  “Stella…” He looks wounded, and I instantly feel regret. “Do you truly believe that I want to keep you a secret?”

  “No,” I redact. “But I can’t deny that I’m really impatient for Zoe to know about us. She was my closest friend and now I’m in this weird limbo stage. It’s wearing on me, Blake, and you haven’t brought up telling her at all. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You’re supposed to trust me,” he answers almost tiredly.

  I take a tentative step toward him then place my palm on top of his hands spread flat against the counter. His warm skin under mine is the perfect salve to my emotional scrapes and I begin calming. “I do trust you, Blake. If I’ve learned anything from my mom, it’s that communication is important in relationships and we’re not communicating about this.” My eyes flicker to his uncertainly. I find understanding in his expression, and I forge on. “Obviously, I let my emotions get the best of me. I’m sorry for getting angry with you. I’m ready to talk to Zoe. I want her to know that we’re together.”

  Blake flips his hand over, fits our fingers together, and yanks me between his legs. His hands fall to either side of my waist and he begins leisurely stroking my sides with his thumbs. “You’re right. We haven’t talked about Zoe and we need to.” His deep brown eyes bore into mine and I know something serious is coming. “Believe me when I said I was planning to tell you this before you got upset?” I nod once. “I want you to come to New York with me on Friday. There’s a press junket for the Wind and I’ve been invited to SportsHour.”

  The answer comes automatically. “Yes.” I need to take a break from unending work, but I’m confused as to how this fits in with my desire to come clean to Zoe.

  “We leave for New York Friday and fly back on Monday morning. After, I plan to drive to New Point because there’s a birthday thing for Zoe. I was going to invite you tonight. It’s about time that Zoe knows about us. We’ll surprise her.” Blake makes the comment factually; meanwhile, my heart soars in my chest at his invitation.

  “You’re ready to tell her,” I repeat more to myself than him. Relief washes through me. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was worried, deathly afraid, that Blake would never be prepared to tell his sister. Now, he’s invited me on an impromptu vacation, and at the end, we’ll see Zoe.

  “Do you think she…” Uncertainly stops me in my tracks.

  “Go on,” he encourages.

  “Do you think Zoe will want to see me?”

  Blake’s eyes melt into liquid chocolate and he drops a row of kisses from my cheek along my jawline and then to my lips. “Baby, of course, she does. Zoe’s finally in a place now where she’s not relying on anyone to force her out of bed. She’s a different girl then you saw a few months ago. Zoe has a great job and a boyfriend. She’ll be thrilled to see you again. I know that she misses you.”

  Dropping my cheek to the space where his neck and shoulder meet, I snuggle close to him. His words release more of the tension in me. I allow him to lift me into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist and clinging to him. Though he promised dinner, we quickly forget about it, lost in each other.

  Blake

  Stella provoked a feeling in me that I’m not too familiar with. Fear. God, when I saw the anger and hurt that she wore earlier this week, I almost lost my mind. I would do damn near anything to strike those emotions away from her for the rest of her life. Thankfully, I was able to fix what was bothering her with something that I’d already had planned.

  Frowning to myself, I yank the length of my tie through the Windsor knot. It’s Friday and my girl is getting ready to come with me to SportsHour for my interview with the dipshit Chip Conway. I loathe this media junket stuff, especially when I’m forced to play nice with the host who loves a good scandal. Thankfully, my legal team built an ironclad contract that says if he mentions anything about my personal life, we pull advertising from his show. Pretty simple shit, actually, but I don’t feel like pl
aying nice with this prick when I could be wining and dining my girl. Instead, I’ll have to suffer through this interview and then take her to a nightcap. Fuck if I know why I have to get to the studio an hour before the show goes live at eight.

  “Holy hotness.”

  I meet Stella’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. She’s staring at me hungrily and I smile at her verbal confession.

  “There’s no way that I’ll be able to concentrate on the media training points when I know you’ll be waiting for me in that dress.” Her tight black dress showcases every delectable curve of her hourglass figure. The dress has a scoop neck, revealing an expanse of creamy white skin and luscious cleavage. “Snow White, what are you trying to do to me?”

  Stella’s laughter is like lemonade on a humid day, sweet and refreshing. She wiggles her way between the bathroom vanity and me and settles my tie on my chest. I lock her in place, my hands on either side of her hips.

  She places her hands on my shoulders, affixing me with a mock stern gaze. “You’re going to run this interview. And then you’ll come back to me and we’ll have all the time that we need to be together.”

  “Fine,” I grumble, though the prospect of spending the rest of the weekend tangled with Stella in crisp white sheets sounds pretty damn enticing. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I’m not one to fall victim to superstition. Most of the time, I’m on an even keel, but when I walk through the doors of the SportsHour studio, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Stella must sense something too because she squeezes my hand tightly. Glancing over, I find her watching me worriedly. We pause next to the reception desk and I ask her the question hoping she has an answer for what I’m feeling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head quickly, the mass of thick, flower-scented hair shimmering under the fluorescent lights. “Nothing.” The smile she wears does nothing to reassure me.

  Never let ‘em see you sweat. I squeeze her hand and offer a confident smile before turning toward the desk. “Mr. Campbell,” the young girl breathes and jumps to her feet and leads us through a maze of hallways to a dressing room. While Stella waits patiently, a Wind PR staffer reviews the media plan with me and a producer from the show drops by to tell me about the logistics of the taping. Chip Conway, the host who I’m starting to think of now as more of a chump, doesn’t stop in to say hello.

  Prick.

  I type out a text to Zoe, reminding her that I’m on the show tonight. In a couple of days’ time, I’ll be introducing my relationship to my sister. I have no worries about this. In fact, I think my sister will be shouting from the rooftops that her big, bachelor brother is finally settling down. I haven’t told Stella, but I know Zoe wants my girlfriend back in her life. It’s not my place to interfere. Yet. Once they see each other on Monday, I’m hoping they can rekindle their friendship. Stella still carries pain and guilt over not being able to save my sister from her own demons. Both of us regret that, but I’m starting to finally accept that I can’t fix what plagues Zoe. I want Stella to learn the same thing.

  “How much are you involved in the day-to-day operations for the Wind?” Stella’s gentle voice snaps me out of my annoyance. She’s wedged in the corner of the couch, smiling at me. Damn, if it doesn’t make my chest swell knowing that she’s mine.

  “Not much. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been more interested in the operations of the hockey team. Probably because I spent most of my time playing football; I liked escaping into something still in sports, but a different arena.”

  “You’re interviewing then as an owner,” she says.

  “These media types love connecting my former glory days playing college ball.” I extend a hand toward her. “Come closer.” She doesn’t hesitate, sliding into my lap. Her skin is soft as satin when I press my cheek against hers. I inhale her floral scent through my nose, trying to settle the foreboding sensation in my gut. “Something’s off,” I murmur.

  “The seediness that is Chip Conway,” she whispers back. It’s enough to make my lips twitch toward a smile.

  “On in five, Mr. Campbell.”

  With an annoyed sigh, I pull away from my girl and glance toward the door where a harried producer waits with a clipboard. I nod sharply, indicating that I’ve heard him, and help Stella to her feet. We keep our hands tightly interlocked when we walk toward the stage. The PR rep said there were two hundred seats in the audience, and then the millions watching at home. The attention doesn’t bother me; hell, I’ve been on gossip blogs and magazines, it’s old news. Let them have those pictures, it doesn’t reflect on what’s actually happening in my life. But tonight that pinch of uncertainty makes me think twice. As if sensing my apprehension, Stella squeezes my hand.

  The SportsHour theme music fills the studio and the audience erupts in enthusiastic applause. Chump struts out from the opposite side of the stage. He pauses off center to give his opening monologue. There’s an air of arrogance stinking up the entire building. The slick-haired host looks like he has a full house behind his poker hand and it pisses me off. I’m not letting this fucker push me around.

  “We’ve got a very special guest in the building,” Chip croons into the camera. The audience howls with fervor. “Yes, Blake Campbell is with me tonight. You won’t want to miss my conversation with him.” He winks at the audience, and a woman screeches in response. “Nothing is off the table.”

  Nothing except what you signed for in the contract. Moron. Chump may be arrogant, but he’s not stupid. He knows that I’ll bury him if he breaches the rules that we agreed upon before I accepted the invitation to appear on SportsHour.

  A few minutes into the show, he moves to the desk where he introduces my segment. On the massive screen behind his desk, a montage of videos and pictures from my life accompany his description.

  “Blake Campbell has captivated the attention of Americans since he burst onto the college football scene as a quarterback for Illinois University. Under the tenure of Coach Bill Templeton, Blake took his team to the national championship twice, taking home victory in his second showing. Fans and sportscasters alike were transfixed by his story. The son to the owner of two professional sports houses would have his pick of teams to join. But he gave up the chance to play professionally for the dream of ownership and team management. On the heels of a championship win by the Chicago Wind, we’ve got Blake Campbell with us tonight to talk about the team and his vision for the future. Welcome, Blake.”

  I brush my lips across Stella’s forehead, drawing strength from the simple touch.

  “You got this,” she whispers into the quiet backstage.

  With those words on my mind, I confidently stride across the stage, keeping my expression polite but cool. Chump watches me smugly and I want to punch that expression right off his face. Instead, I grip his hand to the point of pain when I shake it.

  He peppers me with questions about the team. Will we take the Super Bowl again? What about the loss of our running back to retirement? Our biggest rival, the Milwaukee team, had the first pick in the draft—are we concerned about their new quarterback? I answer swiftly, with barely a blink. Maybe chump thought he could trip me. He’s mistaken.

  SportsHour cuts to a commercial break.

  When the show returns, Chump’s staring into the camera gleefully. I keep my expression straight. Whatever he wants to toss my way, I’m ready for it. Then he shifts toward me and I see it.

  Victory.

  He must have forgotten that I’m a natural born competitor. I don’t lose. Ever.

  “Blake, you’re a notoriously private man. It’s not hard to find you in the public eye, whether it be splashed across tabloids on dates with celebrities, your relationship with the team, endorsements, or philanthropy, but it doesn’t give the full picture of Blake Campbell the man. Some even go as far as to accuse you of being robotic.”

  My voice doesn’t waver when I respond smoothly. “There are certain aspects of a man’s life that
should remain private. Right, Chip?”

  Hear that silent threat?

  “Perhaps. But I believe good news should be shared with the world. Why don’t you publicize your engagement?”

  “What?” My body freezes like a block of ice. Chump turns slightly, facing a giant screen behind his desk.

  Once again, a montage of pictures fills the screen, but this time they are of me and Zoe from the anniversary of our mom’s death. The images show us hugging, me displaying the ring to Zoe, and then my sister throwing her arms around my neck in appreciation for the gift.

  Rage fills all of my senses. No one, and I mean no one, fucks with my sister. My hand flexes where I have it rested on the armchair, but other than that, I hardly move. Now’s not the time, but I will have my shot at him. He’s not going to have the satisfaction of affecting me on national television. A plan comes to mind and the tenseness in my shoulders releases slightly.

  Forgive me, Zoe.

  “A viewer from New Point, Michigan kindly sent us these photos of your engagement. Though I must say, can’t you do better than proposing in the middle of some Podunk bar?”

  “Engaged?” I respond, slightly surprised.

  “Not only engaged, but to quite the fiancée. Zoe Baker is the young woman who notoriously held off would-be shooter Clinton Smith at Clarkes Elementary School in Chicago almost a year ago. For those who don’t remember, the young woman who convinced the gunman not to use his weapon disappeared into thin air. She refused all media interviews. Now, we’ve found the mysterious Zoe Baker. How does it feel to be engaged to a hero?”

  Another photo fills the screen the screen behind the desk. One that I’ve never seen before nor knew was taken.

  It’s outside Clarkes, and there’s a crush of police officers swirling around the school in various states of activity. Zoe’s in the center of it all, standing near the curb. This image was likely captured moments before we got to her. Her hands clutch her ears, her dark eyes wide and unseeing. It’s a memory that I never want to relive. The bone-chilling terror comes back in a rush, looking at my sister’s chalky and translucent skin. God, I hope my sister didn’t read my text. I hope that she does not see this.